


Pitstop in Limbo

by antagonisticgay



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa Another Episode: Ultra Despair Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Internal Conflict, M/M, Mentions of Enoshima Junko, Nonbinary Kamukura Izuru, Nonbinary Komaeda Nagito, One Shot, Other, Post DRAE, Sharing a Bed, Sickbed Slaying, Sickfic, Trans Kamukura Izuru, Trans Komaeda Nagito, t4t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonisticgay/pseuds/antagonisticgay
Summary: "He is no flint, he is merely wax, to be molded and shaped into whatever grotesque form his master desires until the sun begins to approach, and he melts to nothing before his skin can be bathed in light for more than a fleeting moment.He is flesh. Hope is flesh. He must always remember."--Kamukura falls ill during their travels, so they stop at a motel to rest for the night. In the morning Komaeda sets out to find food and medicine and tries to keep his thoughts from consuming him whole.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999564
Kudos: 23
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Trans Centric SDR2 Fics





	Pitstop in Limbo

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been reading gothic literature so prepare for ridiculously indulgent word choice.
> 
> Both Kamukura and Komaeda are nonbinary because I am SO sexy and I just cannot keep from projecting myself on these bitches. I tagged this as "MLM" and "other" because of just my personal preferences for how I refer to myself and my relationships as a nonbinary gay guy lol. 
> 
> Cw:  
> -Extensive body imagery. Like just straight up unabashed detailing of someone’s naked body. Not in a sexual way (or post sex) but Komaeda do be starin.  
> -Violent imagery, intrusive thoughts (uhh I don’t consider it graphic but I might be wrong so please tell me if you think I should change the tag. if only specific types of violence wig you out, I elaborate a bit in the end notes so check out those warnings before you read if you need to!)  
> -Some dashes of religious imagery throughout

The morning is silent, save for the thump of his heartbeat, emanating from the ragged mattress beneath him. Komaeda sits up and winces at the orange light cutting into the abandoned motel room, revealing a curtain of dust and ash swirling through the air. He overslept. He was supposed to leave this morning before Kamukura awoke to go searching for supplies further into the town beyond their sanctuary from the noise. 

He looks across the room; there is a second queen-sized bed. Kamukura lays unconscious in the shadows, unnaturally tangled in the sheets. The careful chaos of his body could be compared to a classical painting if it weren’t for the sheen of sweat and the steady rise and fall of his tan skin. 

He is still asleep. Komaeda sighs at the temporary reprieve. 

It doesn’t matter anymore, he supposes. Those works no longer exist. And neither will this scene, the Ultimate Hope, in such subtle yet vivid suffering, once his memory no longer allows it, or Kamukura finally does away with him.

His luck cannot kill him anymore. The power he once unwillingly handed his life to had been killed with a single bullet.

Komaeda tries not to stare at Kamukura’s body. He has places to be, really. But he was so rarely granted this opportunity. Even now, he is not taking. Kamukura can always feel his gaze. He is  _ giving _ him this moment, or else he would have plucked his eyes straight from his sorry skull before he could even blink.

The one easiest to see wrapped around Kamukura’s forehead. A crown of thorns, a sight that became much more telling the first time Komaeda saw him disrobe. His eyes trace his hair, winding down the curves of his body like the flow of River Lethe against the banks of Hades. 

The silky black pools in the dip of his weight against the bed. Even through the curtain, Komaeda can see the precise line that traces down the plane of Kamukura’s back. Though he cannot see it now, he can remember vividly the line that mirrors it, starting at his sternum and plunging deep into the slope between his breasts. 

He envies the grace of Kamukura’s body. He envies the sculpted muscle and rounded fat. Even in stillness, his body waltzed. 

Kamukura had taken to trying to soften the stab of bone through his skin. To make him more palatable perhaps, although his shackle’s chain could never rest against his torso the same way. 

But that was alright. At least in the moments Kamukura’s hand rested on the hollow of his chest. At least for those fleeting moments, he could feel less emaciated.

That is not now.

It was now Komaeda’s turn, to play the role of nurse. For someone meant to be a servant, he found Kamukura to be servicing him far too often. He finally tears his eyes away and sets to getting ready to gather food, and maybe medicine if his luck is kind to him today.

As he slips on his clothes, he wonders why Kamukura keeps him alive. Despair sinks its nails in his back, whispers sweetly in his ear that Kamukura keeps him on standby to make things  _ worse. _

He puts on his coat and her nails falter against the thick leather. As he pulls his arms through the sleeves, the vacant stump where he once affixed Enoshima’s hand reminds him that Kamukura has never played for any side. 

Komaeda isn’t sure what he is serving anymore either.

He locks the door on his way out.

* * *

If it weren’t for the burning sky and neglected concrete, Komaeda could pretend this is any other walk in the quiet suburbs, early in the morning before the families left their houses. His body may be shielded by the endless lines of empty houses, but the only  _ real _ remaining bastion sleeps fitfully in their shelter. 

There is no need to pretend there was no striking silence in the absence of cicadas. His own heavy breaths, the gentle jingle of his chain, and the unsteady thump of his boots against the pavement keep him tethered to who he is. No longer Nagito, not precisely Servant. Nonetheless, he still exists in Despair’s hierarchy, his essence remolded to life in the city.

He keeps walking, beyond the residents and to what was left of the shops. The city was violent and ravaged, but even in death it held a show of life and blood that can’t be found in the decrepit outskirts; now home only to vagabonds that try to escape to the countryside, unaware of the polluted lands that wait to swallow them whole.

Komaeda is the only living person in sight. He slips through the broken glass door with his chain held tight in his fist so it doesn’t clink against the frame as he bows his head. The inside is void of life as well, with little material left to be discovered. He lets his lead hang once more as he wanders past the entry. 

He scans the near vacant shelves of the pharmacy. He cannot read the faded labels on any of the bottles. He wonders if it truly matters what he gets. If he chooses right, day will come sooner. He chooses wrong, chaos will unhinge his jaw, crushing Hope between his teeth.

Komaeda shakes off the thought. 

He is no flint, he is merely wax, to be molded and shaped into whatever grotesque form his master desires, until the sun begins to approach, and he melts to nothing before his skin can be bathed in light for more than a fleeting moment.

He is flesh. Hope is flesh. He must always remember.

He fishes a plastic bag from behind the register and tucks it in the crook of his elbow. He grabs everything he can fit and can distinguish, he will let Kamukura take care of the rest. He rubs the curve of his chain against the pad of his thumb and pulls himself along to finish his errands. 

* * *

When Komaeda returns, Kamukura faces the door fully wrapped in blankets. He sits with his legs curled up, propping a pillow against his chest that he rests his chin upon. Kamukura opens a single eye, watching languidly as Komaeda awkwardly shuffles off his shoes without using his still tender forearm. 

Komaeda pads over between the beds, sitting back on his own to set down the bags. The plastic crinkles in the stale air. His lungs shake in kind and he grabs the pillow, holding his breath as his arms tremble and he pushes it down onto Kamukura’s face. Not only his body but his conviction, weakened by illness. They’re both helpless to acrylic nails piercing the feathery down. Even in death, she is starving him, suffocating him, snuffing out his light.

“Komaeda.”

He exhales. 

Kamukura had opened both of his eyes, the rest of his face lax and unchanged. Komaeda’s eyes uncloud to see the cushion resting innocently at the head of his bed. He releases his grip on the bags and untenses what little remains of his muscles. 

“I’m sorry.”

He has one hand. His nails are short and unpainted, curved into small circles like pieces of glass softened by the roll of the tides. There’s little dirt beneath his cuticles, even though it permeated the air these days. His other arm is mostly healed, a sock-covered the stump to keep him from scratching himself lest he tries to soften any falls with his now missing hand.

“We are fine.”

Kamukura is too ill to dance today, so Komaeda won’t drag him around to music that aggravates his headache. He makes a weak noise of affirmation.

“Sit with me.”

“But don’t you need-”

“It will wait.” Kamukura shuffles closer to the wall and repositions the pillow beneath his head. He only rests on it halfway. “Come to bed.”

Komaeda obeys, taking off his jacket and pants, attempting to fold them neatly before settling for placing them gently on his bed. He slips in beside Kamukura, tentatively leaning against the pillow, unable to fully settle his weight.

“May I touch you?” he whispers.

Komaeda nods, and Kamukura tucks his face into Komaeda’s neck. His warm hands roam beneath his sweater, against his bare and blemished skin. Kamukura does not complain. He holds Komaeda against him and rests his open palms against his shoulder blades. Once he’s satisfied with their position, he forcefully rubs his jawline across his collarbone in a slow and lazy drag. It isn’t meant to hurt, but he stops when Komaeda unwillingly grunts in pain.

Kamukura huffs in apology and presses a tired kiss to Komaeda’s shoulder. Komaeda lets himself sink into the pillow in forgiveness, coiling his own hand around Kamukura’s waist. 

His pulse thrums beneath his fingertips and the flow of his veins makes him think of digging his blunt nails into Kamukura’s thighs and tearing the life from his body. But they are warm under the blankets, and the bed is soft. He clings onto the soothing heat to distract him from the thought of killing him in his sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> [more detailed violence warnings for those who need them]  
> -scratching/slashing  
> -eye injury  
> -vein/flesh injury  
> -suffocation  
> all of these are only thoughts and have no actual physical influence if that makes any difference  
> \--  
> I’m that bastard your English teacher warned you about. Just putting symbolism in willy nilly. 
> 
> Also here's my bingo card progress for BTHB if you're curious woohoo https://antagonisticgay.tumblr.com/post/640946626132918272/writing-bingo-progressinfo
> 
> This one was for Sickbed Slaying ^^


End file.
